


chicken soup for your sick angel

by Kaijuscientists



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Chicken Soup, Fluff, M/M, Sick Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sickfic, upset aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:20:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21640831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaijuscientists/pseuds/Kaijuscientists
Summary: Aziraphale has the flu and all he wants is some chicken soup. Was that so much to ask for?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 143





	chicken soup for your sick angel

**Author's Note:**

> I’m glad fandom as a whole has decided we will write sickfic for these two idiots, even if they are fully capable of miracling away a cold if they wanted.

Aziraphale wanders around the small grocery, bundled in his most cozy cardigan, a woolen scarf wrapped around his neck. His nose is red and irritated where he wipes it with a tissue. 

He’s carrying a hand basket, a few items inside. But it may as well weigh a few tons as he walks the aisles. He just needs one more thing. One final item and he can go home. 

He could and probably should have used a miracle to at least acquire his ingredients. But the thought of a miracle, even one as small as that, left him exhausted. 

Not that his current predicament was much improved. 

He feels absolutely miserable. He had truly believed this shop had been close enough that he could walk there and back easily, even with his illness. 

He’d gravely miscalculated. The short walk had been ok, but he lost whatever energy he’d had in the middle of the shop, and he still needed to find noodles, if only he could concentrate. 

He stops, closing his eyes and bracing his hand on a shelf, taking a moment to collect himself. His other hand presses against his temple, trying to stave off the headache growing there, 

When he opens his eyes again, he’s surprised to find himself standing right in front of noodles, and he almost cries right there. 

He drags his basket for items and gets in the queue. Somehow he makes it home, though he barely remembers any of that specific journey. And when he remembers he still needs to cook the soup he nearly curses. 

Back in his little kitchen, Aziraphale unpacks his grocery’s and is distraught to find he didn’t buy any actual chicken. 

Fat tears gather in his eyes and roll down his cheeks.  
He falls down into a kitchen chair, crossing his arms on the table in front of him so he can put his aching head down. 

“I just want some home made soup, is that too much to ask?” He whines, to no one in particular. He cries into his arms for a while, mostly feeling sorry for himself. 

When he sits back up, wiping his nose on his sweater sleeve, because he’s past caring at this point, he sees the phone and decides that the only thing to do is call  
Crowley. 

“Crowley,“ He says, when the demon picks up. “I’d hate to be a bother.”

And that’s when Crowley knows something is up, because mostly, Aziraphale loves to be a bother, especially to him. 

“I’m making some soup, but forgot to get some chicken. Could you pick some up for me?”

“Course angel,” Crowley says, “Be right over.”

———————

When Crowley arrives, he finds Aziraphale, still in the kitchen, trying to cut a vegetable, but mostly slumped over in a chair peeling a carrot. He’s huddled in on himself, and squinting from across the room, Crowley's pretty sure he’s shivering. 

‘Ah, He’s sick‘ Crowley realizes. 

Aziraphale looks up at the noise, “Crowley.”

Crowley sets the bag on the counter, sauntering directly over to Aziraphale and pressing his palm to Aziraphale’s forehead. “Gosh, Angel, you’ve went and got a good one, huh? You’re burning up.”

Aziraphale can’t stop himself from leaning into it, Crowley's hand blessedly cool upon his skin. “I had forgotten how horrible this is.”

“You should have said on the phone.” Crowley says, hand coming down to cup Aziraphale’s cheek. “Could have picked up some soup at the store instead, then you wouldn’t have to cook.”

“I wanted...” Aziraphale starts to say, before he quickly turns away from Crowley, and sneezes forcefully into a tissue. “Oh my, sorry dear boy. But it’s just... better when it’s from scratch, more healing.” He says, sounding even more stuffed up, slumped over the table now, gently dabbing at his poor red nose. 

Crowley mumbles and grumbles to himself, as if he didn’t know what the exact outcome of this was going to be as soon as he stepped foot in the shop. 

“Ok, fine, yes.” Crowley says, only sounding a little annoyed because he does have an image to uphold, after all. “I’ll make it for you.”

“Oh, will you?” Aziraphale says, looking up at Crowley like he’d just hung the moon. “That would be oh so kind of you.”

Crowley lets that slide, this time, because he’s sick,m. But he can’t stop the blush that crawls up the back of his neck and onto his cheeks. 

“Yes, on one condition,” Crowley says, holding up his pointer finger. “You go lay down. Look like you’re about to keel over.”

“Fine, but I’m not sleeping.” Aziraphale complains, and even though he stands slowly, he very nearly falls over. Crowley thankfully catches him before he ends up on the floor. 

“S-sorry.” Aziraphale says, voice weak and a little shaky. 

“S’alright,” Crowley says, winding his arm around the angels waist. “Lean on me.”

Together they manage to get Aziraphale to the bedroom. Crowley is surprised to find the bed looking like it was already slept in, blankets all mussed and tissues littered all around. “You’ve slept already?”

“Not on purpose,” Azirapahle says, collapsing to sit on the edge of the bed. “I was resting, and it just happened. I don’t want to again.”

“You really should, it’ll help.” He helps Aziraphale into bed, lifting his legs up. “don’t lay back just yet,” he says looking around. “You got any medicine?”

“Over on the desk.”

“Ah,” Crowley spots the nearly empty bottle, thankful that when pours there was enough for one dose. “Drink this.”

Aziraphale does, but it’s clear from his expression he hates every second of it. Once he’s done, he lets himself fall back, sinking into his small mountain of pillows. 

He hums gratefully when Crowleys arranges his comforter over him, then several thinner blankets over top of that for good measure. 

“Rest, you can have some soup when you wake up.” Crowley says, leaning over to kiss his angels forehead, falling into his old nanny habits. 

“M’not sleepy.” Aziraphale mumbles around a yawn. 

“Ok,” He says, chuckling a little at the stubborn angel. “Whatever you say, angel.”

Aziraphale is asleep before he makes it out the door. 

—————————

He leaves Aziraphale, and takes over where Aziraphale left off, which as it turns out, wasn’t very far at all. 

He didn’t much cook anymore, he didn’t really have a reason too once he’d stopped nannying for the Dowlings. He didn’t eat much, and most of the time Aziraphale preferred to go out and try new restaurants. But he did know how to cook, enjoyed it even. Thinking on it, he wondered why he had not thought to cook for Aziraphale before. 

When he’s happy with the concoction bubbling away on the stove he tries to clean up the kitchen. This room is just as cluttered as the rest of the shop, and there is no “cleaning” it. Happy with the state of it for now, Crowley decides it’s time to check on Aziraphale. 

He enters the angels room, surprised to find him awake, awake and sitting up and crying quietly.  
“Angel,” He says softly, taking his spot on the edge of the bed again.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale starts, jumping a little. He looks miserable, eyes red and wet from tears, blanket clutched in his hands. “Thought maybe I’d dreamt you being here.”

“I’m right here,” Crowley says, placing his hand on top of Aziraphale’s, running his thumb across his knuckles. “What’s wrong?”

“I just,” Aziraphale hiccups, breath getting caught into chest as he tries to calm himself. “I feel so awful.” A wave a fresh tears stream down his cheeks. “It’s been a week, I’m tired and I hurt, and I’m sick of it.”

Aziraphale sniffles, sounding more like a petulant child than an angel of the lord. And usually, Crowley would just let him pout, but right now it just breaks his heart that his angel is suffering, and had been for a week. 

Crowley pulls a handkerchief from the air, gently wiping the tears from Aziraphale’s face, his other hand coming to cup his cheek. “You’re still pretty feverish, i’m sure the meds will help soon.”

“Not soon enough.” Aziraphale sniffles, leaning into Crowley’s touch. 

“How about you lie back down,” Crowley coaxes, encouraging the angel to lie back against his pillows. 

”Every part of me hurts, Crowley.” Aziraphale says, pitifully. 

“I know, angel, I know.” Crowley says sadly, wishing he could do more to help him feel better. “You’ll feel better soon, I promise.” He spends another small miracle to moisten the handkerchief with cool water, running it over Aziraphale’s forehead and cheeks. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale very nearly moans. “That actually feels nice...” A nice contrast to everything he had been feeling and a phenomenally good distraction. He tips his head to the side when Crowley runs the cool cloth down to his neck. 

“Do you think it helps at all?”

When Aziraphale nods, Crowley pops a few of Aziraphale’s pajama buttons with ease, exposing the pale expanse of his chest, speckled with hairs as blonde as the ones atop his head. He flinches for just a second when cloth hits his overheated skin, but quickly relaxes into it. 

Crowley spends quite some time, dutifully cooling down his angel, the flannel staying cool to the touch the entire time. By the time he’s done, and he goes to lie it across the angels forehead, he’s happy to find him snoring softly, and appearing a lot more peaceful. 

\------------------------

The soup cooks while Aziraphale sleeps, and Clowely spends his afternoon going back and forth between the two. 

Sometime in the evening, Aziraphale stirs, eyes finally opening with a soft groan to spot Crowley beside him, dozing in his armchair. 

Crowley blinks awake slowly, jumping up when he realized Aziraphale is looking at him. 

“You’re awake.” Crowley says quickly scrambling from the chair to perch on the edge of the bed again. Aziraphale smiled at him, sleepily blinking, and it filled his demonic heart so much his chest felt tight. “How d’you feel, Angel?”

“How I imagine one might feel after going through a meat grinder.” Aziraphale says quietly, as he pushes himself up into a sitting position, smiling gratefully when Crowley moves to help him. “But not as awful as before.”

“You do still feel feverish.” Crowley presses his palm to Aziraphale’s forehead, frowning. Then he sits up straight, eyes wide. “Hold on, um, don’t go anywhere.”

When Crowley comes back he’s balancing a bowl in one hand and a mug in the other. “Almost forgot about this.” He says, offering the bowl to Aziraphale, making sure he has a good hold on it before letting go. The mug gets set on the bed side table. 

Aziraphale lights up, raising the bowl and inhaling, the first smile Crowley had seen since he got here spreading. 

“Oh, thank you.” Aziraphale says. “It smells divine.”  
When he takes a spoonful, broth the perfect temperature, he nearly melts from the warmth that blooms from his chest. “Oh, oh my.”

“S’it good?” Crowley asks, suddenly feeling a little self conscious. 

“It’s scrumptious.” Aziraphale sighs happily. “I didn’t know you could cook. 

“Used to do, for Warlock.” Crowley explains. “So it’s been a while since.”

“You should more often.” Aziraphale says, the warmth soothing him, and the love, and oh there was so much steeped into just this bowl, filling his chest. “It’s perfect.”

“Anything for you, angel.” Crowley says, preening with Aziraphale’s praise, unable to stop his own smile, or the blush that had crept it way over his cheeks. He would cook anything a thousand times over if his angel reacted this way.


End file.
